


The House of the Phoenix

by notearchiver



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: bottom_draco, Dubious Consent, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming, Violence, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 08:22:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notearchiver/pseuds/notearchiver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say it's where heroes go to die every Friday night and rebirth every Saturday morning, that it's a club for fighting, that it's invitation only. It's called the House of the Phoenix. When Draco Malfoy receives an invitation five years after the War, he goes to find redemption. What he gets is something much different. And he can't escape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The House of the Phoenix

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2013 bottom_draco Adaptations fest on Livejournal. An adaptation of Fight Club.
> 
>  **Title:** The House of the Phoenix  
>  **Author:** notearchiver  
>  **Pairing:** Ron/Draco  
>  **Word Count:** ~3,890  
>  **Rating:** NC-17  
>  **Contains:** violence; dub-con; non-consensual sex; non-consensual watersports, rimming, and blink-and-you’ll-miss-it bloodplay.  
>  **Disclaimer:** Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. Any other recognisable elements are from Fight Club and are property of Chuck Palahniuk and W.W. Norton. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.  
> 

It's called the House of the Phoenix, but no one knows where it is. It's rumoured that it's Unplottable, that it’s under Fidelius.

It's invitation only, they whisper at the pubs.

The people who go are known collectively as the old crowd: the victors of the past, the relics of the present.

They laugh nervously when they talk about it, part incredulous, part in awe.

It's a club for fighting, they say behind closed doors.

It's where heroes go to die every Friday night and rebirth every Saturday morning.

It's a thing of fairytales, but no one doubts that it exists.

And everyone wants an invitation.

\------

A man sits in a chair with his black Unspeakable robes undone, a flask resting on the table in front of him. He is languidly stroking his cock; the sound of his hand against his turgid flesh echoes obscenely around the stone chamber. The single light hovering in the corner illuminates the figure, revealing a gaunt, angular frame.

He groans, breath visible, as his thumb circles the head of his cock, finger dipping under the foreskin. His hips jerk, and light glints off a silver cock ring.

The door behind him opens, but he doesn't stop stroking himself. An Auror enters, boots clicking against the floor. He walks until he is standing in front of the Unspeakable and leans against the table.

"Wanking during work," the Auror observes, raising his eyebrows.

The other man collects some pre-come on his thumb and brings it to his mouth. His tongue lazily licks it off, swirling around the digit in a mockery of a blow job.

"I'm on break," the man replies, hand returning to caress his swollen prick.

The Auror's gaze travels up and down the Unspeakable's figure, lingering on the cock ring, before he leans forward and casually grabs the man's hair.

"What a pretty cock you have," he drawls, eyes cold and mouth smirking.

The man in the chair jerks his head, his hand coated with lube and pre-come rising and slapping away the hand holding his hair.

"Fuck you," he snaps, shaking locks of hair out of his eyes. "What you do want? This isn't your domain."

The Auror stares at his slickened hand, then snaps his fingers. A folded piece of parchment appears.

"I thought you might want this." He holds the parchment up to the light before tossing it next to him on the table.

The Auror is turning towards the door when the Unspeakable releases the cock ring. His come jettisons across the space and lands on the Auror's robes.

Scooping up some of the semen and examining it, the Auror says in an amused tone, "You've got some spunk to pull that off, Malfoy."

"Get out, Weasley," the Unspeakable retorts sharply, waving a hand at the man.

The Auror chuckles, tips and imaginary hat, then walks out, the closing door echoing behind him.

Regarding the folded bit of parchment on the table, the Unspeakable stands and retrieves it, his now flaccid cock brushing the wood. He unfolds the paper and reads the messy scrawl:

 _The House of the Phoenix is located at number 12, Grimmauld Place_.

When he finishes reading, the note bursts into flames, searing his hand.

Draco Malfoy stares at the quickly fading phoenix brand on his palm.

He laughs.

\------

Draco watches, unperturbed as a dingy house appears. It's fitting, he thinks, for the vaunted group to meet in a decrepit building. It matches survivors' souls quite well. Or what's left of them, at least.

The door opens without his touch, and he follows ghostly whispers past mounted heads and faded rugs. Dust swirls, marring his hair, his face. The grimy grey compliments his pupils. A woman in a portrait nods at him, eyes sad in a way that was never meant to be.

Whispers turn to murmurs, and he arrives at a steep, shadowed staircase descending into a golden glow of light. Behind him phantoms of the past whisper of glory and blood, pain and redemption; they hum tales of violence and regret; they offer escape. 

Draco descends.

The basement is bare except for groups of men talking quietly. Draco recognizes faces from his days at Hogwarts. Thomas and Finnegan. Smith and Zabini. Longbottom and George Weasley. Some nameless Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. Draco counts twenty people in all. Ron Weasley and Harry Potter lean against the wall directly in front of him. They are surveying the crowd in a way that reminds him of the Dark Lord watching his Death Eaters.

Draco just stands there, unnoticed, until Potter turns his head. The man in glasses blinks twice, then nudges Weasley. Weasley turns to stare directly at him, mouth forming into a sneer.

Draco says nothing.

Weasley raises his chin.

Draco does nothing.

A draught swirls the deadened air, and Ron steps forward, feet thudding against the concrete. The talking stops and the clods of men shuffle to form a ring surrounding them. It is silent except for the murmur of inhalations and exhalations.

"Malfoy," Ron says, spreading his arms, "welcome to the House of the Phoenix."

He extends his hand, and Draco grasps it, surprised at the cold feel of calloused skin against his own. He moves to step back, but Ron tightens his grip, refusing to let him go. The crowd titters, stopping when Ron raises his other hand.

"You are here," he continues, "because society has declared you worthless." Weasley gestures at Potter, who approaches and takes Draco's wand from his pocket before stepping back and setting it on the table. It becomes part of a neat line of wands. Draco follows the movements with his eyes, but does not protest. "We are here because we know that everything is falling apart. We are here because we want to do something about it. We are here to reclaim the past." He pauses, then raises his voice and proclaims, "We are here to fight!"

As the circle roars and shifts, Ron pulls Draco into a parody of an embrace and whispers in his ear, "And we fight for keeps."

Draco cringes as the warm breath caresses his ear and stumbles back when Ron releases him.

The circle quiets.

Potter steps forward with a scroll of parchment. With a snap of his wrist, the parchment unfurls, and he hands it to Draco. "The rules," he says with a hint of a smirk. "Once you have entered the building, you are bound by magic to obey them."

Draco grasps the weighty parchment, but does not look at it. He regards Potter, eyebrows raised in a calculated incredulity.

"You do realise that binding someone to a magical contract without their consent is illegal?"

Potter gestures to the group. "They accepted this without question, Malfoy. Are you still so arrogant as to think you are better than us?"

Draco quickly appraises the circle. Finnegan and Thomas are tense, their lips curling back into snarls reminiscent of hungry thestrals. Longbottom taps his foot, loosely massaging his fist. Cloaked in shadows, George Weasley is the only one to appear neutral. He nods slowly at Draco, head moving infinitesimally. Draco sets his mouth.

"Very well, Potter," he snaps. He wanders to the table, supremely aware of the hostile gazes he receives.

Written in smeared, deep red ink, the list of rules is short.

_You do not speak about the House of the Phoenix._  
If it is your fist time attending, you must fight.  
No wands; no shirts; no shoes.  
Opponents will be picked on a random basis.  
The fight goes on as long as it has to.  
If a person goes limp, the fight is over.  
Fights are for keeps. The loser must submit to requital, which is to be decided by the winner upon the completion of the fight.  
Requital may consist of anything save monetary payment.  
The terms of requital must be approved by the majority.  
A qualified healer will be on hand at all times. 

The line about submitting to requital is eerily similar the Dark Lord's preferred method of punishment and reward, Draco muses, and almost laughs at the irony. He is to gain redemption in the same way he lost his soul: at the feet of another.

\------

Draco dodges the fist hurtling at his head and darts to the right, trying to stay out of Ron's range. The jeers of the circle grow.

It isn't cowardice, he tells himself, desperately blocking a lashing limb, it's strategy. Weasley is far larger than him, and once in his grip, well, Draco suspects the floor will be much harder than dirt in a forest.

He lunges at Ron, momentarily shocked as his fist makes contact with a cheekbone. The flesh seems to quiver under Draco's hand, putting up little resistance before the pressure distorts it. His fingernail catches the edge of Ron's nose, drawing a miniscule amount of blood. 

Looking in Weasley's calculating eyes, Draco hopes he broke the man's cheekbone, though he'll settle for discoloured, puffy skin. In that second, the circle is quiet, leaning in to see what will happen. He revels in the knowledge that he is the cause of the silence.

And then a fist hits his jaw, and his head snaps backward. He feels his skin tighten at the movement. He feels his muscles stretch. Is this what a frog feels like when its legs are being pulled in opposite directions by two first years? Draco doesn't know.

A force slams into his shoulder, and Draco falls to the floor. The impact of his skull on smooth concrete jars his jaw, and he emits a groan, watching as his breath coalesces in the dank air. Is this what a soul looks like as a Dementor swallows it?

Blood streams from a slash in his forehead and pools in the corner of his eye, giving a red tint to the figure looming over him.

Ron grins, and slowly raises his foot. As the foot comes to rest on his groin, Draco attempts to scramble away, arms skidding on the slick floor. An abrupt pressure causes him to stop. He gasps, convulsively swallowing a mouthful of blood.

The pressure increases as Ron begins to kneel, and a toe digs into his balls.

"Forfeit," Draco heaves, arms struggling vainly to dislodge the foot.

All movement stops, and the pressure does not relent, but neither does it augment.

Draco swipes at his eye, clearing his vision of blood. Weasley stands above him. Draco watches as a bruise forms on Weasley's cheek and drops of blood collect at the edge of his freckled nose. Dust motes swirl behind him, partially obscuring the ring of men.

"You lasted longer than I thought you would, Malfoy," Ron finally says. The pressure spikes momentarily as he pushes off Draco's groin. "Not that it proves you aren't a weak little shit. Still…" He folds his arms, circling Draco.

Draco rolls until his is on his hands and knees. He tries to stand, only to have a foot hit is thigh, causing him to tumble onto his back.

"I didn't say you could get up."

Clenching his teeth, Draco remains silent. He stares at the ceiling, concentrating on lines made from water damage. He flinches when Ron speaks.

"Requital: one hour with Malfoy, during which I may do to him what I wish. Hands?"

Staring at the ceiling, Draco only hears the rustle as hands being raised. He doesn't need to count; he knows he is damned.

"Majority rules," Ron declares, "requital acknowledged." He straddles Draco, lowering himself until he is kneeling. Resting most of his weight on Draco's thighs, Ron leans forward and frames Draco's head with his hands. His thumb rubs against the man's cheek, and Draco flinches.

"What the fuck are you doing, Weasley?" He pushes against the Ron, but cannot budge him.

Lowering his head until their noses touch, Ron softly says, "Requital starts now. I would be counting the minutes, Malfoy."

Draco opens his mouth to reply only for Ron to cover it with his own. Struggling against the invasion, Draco flails his legs, attempting to bend his knee to dislodge Ron. He makes contact and a muffled yelp reverberates in his mouth. The hands on the sides of his head disappear, and Draco bucks his hips, managing to roll onto his stomach so he is staring at the stone floor.

Looking up, Draco sees the stairs looming in front of him, and he shimmies forward towards his escape. He has moved two feet when Ron grabs his hair and slams his face against the floor. Draco feels his nose crunching on impact and his vision blurs.

As he fights to control the pain, Ron rests a foot on his back. His toenail digs into Draco's skin, causing the dermis to turn white from the impact. "Fifty-eight minutes, Malfoy," Ron announces, sliding his foot down until his toes slip under the waistband of Draco's trousers. "Now, do you want to make this hard for yourself or not?"

Someone in the circle laughs, and Draco bites his lip. After several seconds he lets his body go limp, shivering when his nipples come in contact with the cold stone.

"That's a good choice," Ron says. His foot glides lower under the waistband and Draco tenses when Ron slips a toe between his the cheeks of his arse. He holds himself rigid as the toe digs deeper, pulling his trousers lower, and taps his arsehole. The digit massages the ring of muscle, and Draco relaxes somewhat against his will.

"Hurry up, mate; I want a good show!" Finnegan calls out, and Draco abruptly remembers he is surrounded by enemies.

Ron sighs theatrically, removing his foot. "Very well. Turn over, Malfoy," he orders, nudging Draco's ribs. Draco rolls onto his back, spitting the blood in his mouth onto the floor. Ron looms above him, head cocked to the side. "Bruises suit you. I'd get them more often. Now stay still."

Kneeling, Ron unbuttons Draco's trousers and pulls them off, revealing a limp cock nestled in a smattering of hair. "And to think Parkinson said you were big!" Ron laughs, and Draco turns his head to the side.

He sees Potter staring avidly at him. Above his head is set of blinking numbers that read 54.

"Fuck," Draco mutters.

"Not yet, Malfoy," Ron smirks. "Right now you're going to show the crowd how big you can get. I want you as hard as you were at work." Grasping Draco's cock, Ron begins to massage it, sliding his hand up and down. "That's it," he murmurs as the organ starts to respond.

Draco gasps and turns his head away, shutting his eyes tightly, hating his traitorous body for responding to the touch. He can feel the throbbing flow of blood pulsating through his veins with each manipulation of Ron's fingers, and his hips jerk on their own accord. A hand grasps his chin and forces him to look down at his lengthening cock.

"You're going to watch this, Malfoy. I want you to see how much your slutty body loves this—how much you need this."

He watches: watches as his cock thickens until it is fully erect; watches as the pre-come starts leaking from the slit; watches as Weasley's hand moves faster and faster. And as he watches, he can't stop the groans that echo around the basement, nor can he stop the tears that begin to leak as the men in the ring shout encouragement.

Draco feels his balls begin to tighten, and he squirms to get away from the hand.

"Not yet, Malfoy. You're going to come all over yourself," Ron jeers, pointing Draco's cock at its owner's face. It only takes Ron running a finger from his perineum to his balls for him to lose control.

Moaning incoherently, Draco closes his eyes, letting wave after wave of come splatter against his chest and face. He keeps his eyes firmly closed even as his cock goes limp and the come mingles with the blood staining his face, refusing to look at the cheering crowd and Ron's triumphant face. He hears rustling but doesn't respond until Ron forces open his legs.

"Open your eyes, Malfoy. I haven't finished yet," Ron directs.

Draco opens his eyes to see Ron sitting naked between his legs, palming his cock in one hand, the other hand pushing his leg aside. Ron's blue eyes are dark and heavy, filled with lust and rage.

"Look at yourself, splayed on the floor with come on your chest like a Knockturn Alley whore," Ron says, running his fingers through the come on Draco's abdomen. "What a pretty picture you made, moaning as if you wanted every one of us to fuck you."

Draco shakes his head as Ron pushes one of his legs to his chest. "No—"

Ron slaps him, the semen and blood making a squelching noise as his hand slides against Draco's cheek.

"I don't want to hear your protests." He lines his cock up with Draco's arsehole, blunt head nudging the unstretched muscle. Ron smiles. "I only want to hear your screams," he says, and thrusts in.

And Draco does scream, tears streaming down his face to mix with the drying come and blood. He scratches at the floor, trying to distract himself from the searing, caustic burn of tearing tissue.

The cheers and taunts merge with his screams, only growing louder until Ron gives one last thrust and comes jerkily.

Ron pulls out slowly and stands up, admiring Draco's winces with each movement. 

"Done yet?" Draco gasps, trying to find his former strength.

The circle chuckles.

"Not quite yet. I have a minute left."

Pointing his smeared cock at Draco's face, Ron lets out a stream of piss.

"Now I'm done."

\------

Each week he goes and dies every Friday night. Each Saturday morning he searches for his rebirth. All he gets is the stench of blood and come, shit and urine.

\------

When he hears the last footsteps tromp up the stairs, Draco rolls onto his side. He does his best to ignore the squishing sound as his cheek disconnects from the puddle of shit, vomit, and urine.

Rising to find his robe, he sees George Weasley sitting at a table in front of a mirror on the other side of the room. Draco hesitantly walks over to him.

"Why are you here?" George asks. He wipes of trickle of blood from his face and tosses the cloth on the table.

"Huh?"

"I mean, what do you need so badly that you come, get the shit beat out of you, and then get fucked within an inch of your life?" He looks in the mirror and prods his puffy cheekbone.

"Redemption," Draco says. He picks up the blood-stained cloth and scrubs at a smear of excrement on his swollen bottom lip.

George spits out a clot of blood. "And scouring yourself with an ocean of grime is going to clean the stains from your soul?"

"If I swim through enough of it," Draco replies, staring at the brown streak on the cloth.

"Listen to me, mate," George says seriously, placing his hand on Draco's raw forearm. "You're way past swimming. You've drowned." He turns Draco until he is looking in the mirror. "Look at yourself." Draco tries to pull away, but Georges holds on tightly. "Look at yourself and tell me you didn't hit bottom long ago."

\------

Draco sits on the floor watching the arch. The veil flutters in time with the wafting waves of indistinguishable voices. The voices sound like mothers grieving lost children; children searching for lost dreams; lost dreams dispersing with the stars. There is a voice that consoles the others. It beckons him.

Boots echo on grey flagstones as Ron Weasley descend the steps of the amphitheatre.

"I suppose you're on break this time as well?" Ron chuckles. "It's a wonder the Unspeakables ever accomplish anything.

"Fuck off," Draco replies indignantly.

"I don't think so, Malfoy."

Moving to stand behind the sitting man, Ron threads his fingers through the man's blond hair, absently fiddling with the strands. They separate loosely, cascading against the blunt fingers.

"You weren't there on Friday," Ron comments, tugging the head to the side to reveal a bruised neck.

"How observant of you," Draco says dryly, crossing his legs and shifting closer to the veil. "I'm flattered you care so much."

The voices sing lullabies.

Ron pushes him in the back, and he falls forward, landing parallel to the archway on his hands and knees. Hands grip his hips as Ron roughly shoves up his robes, revealing hand-shaped bruises the cleft of the Draco's arse. He pinches a bruise, watching it lighten with the pressure, and Draco jerks forward slightly, movement stopped by a hand on his thigh.

"It is not your choice to come or not," Ron snarls, smirk chilling the air.

Draco tenses and sucks in his lips. It does nothing to stop his whimper when Ron abruptly shoves two fingers up his arse. He shudders as the fingers prod at barely-healed tears. Nails scratch at the inflamed walls as the fingers search for his prostate, and he feels blood begin to flow.

He digs his thumb into the floor and listens to the voices, trying to block out Weasley.

"You come. And when you come, you follow orders!"

The fingers disappear, and Draco feels a trickle of blood seep from his arse. Cold air brushes against the wet streak it leaves, and he trembles at the delicate contact. Draco hears Ron shift, and he braces for penetration, but the frenetic thrust never comes.

"I should have never let George convince me to invite you," Ron continues, patting the Draco's arse. "You're body isn't worth the trouble you make."

Leaning over, Ron gently licks the trickling blood, tongue conforming to flesh. The realms of punishment and clemency conflate as he traces the rim of Draco's arsehole. Closing his eyes and letting his head fall, Draco breathes harshly against the unexpected onslaught. The hot tongue darting in and out of his arse, the slurping sound of Weasley sucking lapping up his blood, the frigid floor under his palms, the fluttering veil—it is too much. Shame dances across his eyelids.

"Stop, Weasley. Stop!" Draco gasps.

The tongue disappears, and Ron rises, knee nudging Draco's thighs further apart. "Why?" he asks, sliding his hand up Draco's chest to twist a nipple.

"Because—because—"

"You know," Ron says conversationally, "That's not very convincing, so I don't think I'll stop." He thrusts into Draco, cock squelching against blood and spit.

Draco's palm skids on the stone floor, and he tips toward the veil, barely managing to maintain balance and not fall through.

The veil flutters. Ron thrusts again. Draco’s hand slips to the side, leaving a smear of blood on the stone. Whispers cradle his head. The veil flutters.

It's his one perfect moment, and he knows it.

Ron pulls back, fingernails scraping across Draco's shoulder.

And the moment won't last forever.

As Ron lurches forward, Draco lets his elbow collapse, throwing himself towards the veil at the same time. He thinks he hears someone laugh, but he can't be sure, because the whispers are deafening.

The veil flutters. There is no one to hear the banging on the door.


End file.
